


Warming

by Apetslife



Series: Heat [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oz and Xander, later</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warming

**Author's Note:**

> Follows S4 "New Moon Rising."

There was no real reason for him to be here now. He should have been   
on the road, driving hard and fast and looking for an elsewhere to   
be. Any elsewhere, because the feel and the smell of a Sunnydale   
night (grass and exhaust and sun-heat lingering in dark brick and   
that constant slight trace of decay) were so painful he couldn't feel   
his fingers. Couldn't actually feel much at all, really, though his   
body knew better than to shut down entirely and his gaze was moving,   
looking through the windshield, alert to movement that might signify   
men with guns. Riley was nice and all, but he still had those   
military eyes and Oz didn't trust him even a little bit. Distracted   
himself for a brief moment with comparitively pleasant memories of   
beatings and electroshock and scalpels, before his brain snapped back   
to its endless litany of *Why why why? Why not me, why didn't you   
wait, why is she so much more, how could you leave me?* He shook his   
head but the loop kept running.

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting here, in a parked dark van   
outside Xander's house. The moon was slivering down behind treetops   
blackened and still in the quiet night, leaves and trunks   
occasionally jumping into definition in the headlights of a passing   
car. Sidewalk a pale strip against the dim nap of lawns. Suburbia,   
wilderness tamed and trammeled, so different from the woods and the   
mountains and Tibet. It all felt like a dream, now, with the meaning   
taken out. Like he never left. Like he never came back. But she   
was gone now, not him, and he was still here, here again, and history   
was getting all jumbled in the unclarity of his mind, and it was time   
to go in if he was going to. 

Out of the van. Up to the door and his feet felt strange and numb   
like he wasn't really controlling them. This was maybe not such a   
good idea, and he felt the weight of history and bitterness and   
memory pulling him back. But when he knocked and Xander answered,   
sleepy-eyed and rumpled in boxers, he couldn't make himself regret it.

Xander looked at him, considering, standing backlit in the door with   
one hand on the knob. Almost-blocking but not. He'd grown up, Oz   
could see. Calmer, with none of that semi-hysterical desperation to   
be liked that had been his trademark in high school. Broader through   
the shoulders and solid on his feet. Still with the pretty dark   
eyes, pale perfect skin, sweet mouth. They were both staring, Oz   
thought.

"Oz." He stepped back from the door, and Oz bent his head and   
followed him in, down the stairs to the little room with the pull-out   
couch and one lamp casting dim golden light and the smell of sleep   
thick in the air. Stood silently in the bare place on the floor,   
watching Xander move around pulling on a green t-shirt, rubbing his   
eyes, pushing in the couch (sheets still on) and flopping down on it.

"So." Oz thought HE was supposed to be the terse one, but since he   
wasn't talking at all yet, maybe Xander was just filling in for him. 

"Oz, I'm sorry, man. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I didn't   
KNOW..." A frustrated hand through overlong dark hair, and he wasn't   
looking at Oz, just kind of staring off at concrete blocks and   
dimness. Oz wandered over, sat beside him balanced on the edge of   
the couch, delicately, as if relaxation might break him. Maybe it   
would, who knew. 

"I know you didn't." His voice was rusty and hoarse. He hadn't used   
it since saying goodbye that last time, and it hurt.

"I just wanted to tell you...I'm sorry. Sorry about...everything."   
He fell silent, and it wasn't comfortable. Xander, with a word for   
every situation, had no idea what to say. Somewhere in Oz's   
scrambled brain, that didn't seem right. Maybe he needed a straight   
man.

"Xander, do you mind if I sleep on your floor tonight? I don't think   
I can drive now." Canting his head sideways to look at Xander out of   
the corner of his eye.

"Oh yeah! Of course, Xander's casa su casa, you know that."   
Silence again. Like it got when someone died and no one knew what to   
say. 

*

Xander was stumped, stymied and lots of other S-words that meant he   
didn't know what to say. Oz was perched on the edge of his sofabed,   
looking pale and bruised and so damn fragile. Head tilted like a   
bird, but not moving. Not that that was surprising, really. Oz had   
always had the same economy of movement that he'd shown with words,   
but this seemed brittle. It must have REALLY sucked, hearing about   
Tara like that, and Xander couldn't help the little flare of anger at   
Willow that he'd been so completely ignorant himself. They could   
have avoided all this, the bruises around Oz's neck that look like   
they came from a collar, the frantic rescue, all of it, if he'd just   
had a LITTLE advance wandering. This wasn't helping, though. And he   
had a feeling that Initiative food was somewhere a few rungs below   
airline fare, on the yumminess ladder.

"Hey." He stood up quick, Oz startled hard, and Xander resolved   
himself to slow-and-easy forever after. "You hungry, man? I've got   
ravioli, and...ravioli." Offered a grin, his first of the night. Oz   
perked up a little, almost smiled back.

"Ravioli, food of the gods."

"Right, and it's done in like four minutes, which is a huge plus for   
me." 

"Xander Harris, Cordon Bleu chef?" Oz was grinning.

"Yeah, as IF. Pasta's about my limit, but boiling water I can do.   
You real hungry, or just a little hungry?"

"Oh, I don't know. My mind thinks I should be pining, but my stomach   
hasn't been fed in a long time." 

"I vote we listen to the stomach. Always listen to the stomach.   
Pining's for wimps anyway. Us manly-men, we eat ourselves into   
comas." He put a pot of water on to boil on the tiny burner, opened   
a frozen bag of pasta and dumped the whole thing in. Puttered around   
with plates and forks and tomato sauce, glancing over to see Oz still   
watching him with those disconcerting old eyes.

"So how was Tibet?" Anything to break the damn silence. 

"Tibet was...above." Minimalist shrug.

"Huh. Above what?"

"Everything." It was like pulling teeth here. But hey, the ravioli   
were starting to float.

"Almost done. Lots of sauce?" 

"Yes please." Always polite, his Oz. Only not. Not his, Willow's,   
but not really hers now either. Maybe Oz's Oz? He wondered how that   
felt, after so long being part of a hyphenate. Wondered if he could   
really be called Anya's Xander, when he was thinking about leaf-  
shadows on white skin and narrow hips between his hands and damn,   
that was a LONG time ago. Forget it.

Two bowls of pasta, and green eyes lighting up to see him coming with   
them. He settled in comfortably, and for a while they were just two   
hungry guys hanging out. OK, Xander'd had dinner already, but   
really, who could resist ravioli? Oz polished his off so quickly he   
wished he'd made more, but there was some tension gone from those   
narrow shoulders and he actually sat back a bit and almost looked   
comfortable. Still holding the bowl with lots of leftover marinara   
in the bottom, and when he let it slip it was so much a surprise that   
Xander just stared. He'd never seen Oz clumsy before.

"Oh shit, Xander-" Oz jumped up, bowl still in hand, with a trail of   
red down his pale pink t-shirt. "I think I got some on your couch."   
And as if it was the last straw, Oz looked at him all bewildered.   
Xander knew that 'what is the world doing to me, and could you please   
tell it to stop?' look. It was fairly common on the Hellmouth, after   
all.

"Oz," he gentled his voice as much as he could, "Don't worry about   
it. Sit. I'll get paper towels." And Oz sat, still clutching his   
bowl. 

Xander hadn't been this close to Oz since...that time. He was   
crouched in front of him where he sat on the edge of a cushion,   
wiping at tomato sauce of all things, concentrating wholly on the   
piece of t-shirt that he was scrubbing. Oz hadn't let go of his   
bowl. Xander worked around it. Felt a solid chest under his   
steadying hand, hard knees against his forearms. Felt Oz staring at   
the top of his head. Saw knuckles whiten around the empty bowl below   
his nose. When he'd gotten as much as he could, he sat back on his   
heels and looked up. Got caught by a memory of that wide, quirky   
mouth smiling at him from inches away. Kissing him. And that was   
all they'd done, really, and he hadn't been able to get it out of his   
head since. God, years ago. Just like yesterday, in his memory, and   
he'd stopped freaking about it a while back.

It was the wrong time, he knew. He looked up further, green green   
eyes looking back at him and ginger hair, natural now. Probably a   
serious shortage of Manic Panic in Tibet. And despite the fact that   
there were faint traces of henna on his hands and arms, he still had   
all those cool chunky silver rings that clicked against the bowl when   
Xander pulled it out of his hands. The quiet was nice, now. Just   
looking at Oz. Whose face was still, but the eyes were wide and   
broken.

Couldn't have Oz looking like that. Not OZ. So Xander leaned in,   
pushed up a little against the balls of his feet, and kissed him. So   
softly, just a brush. And moved away to the sink, to rinse out the   
dishes and catch his breath and give himself a little space.

"You might wanna get out of that shirt." His voice was surprisingly   
calm when he tossed it over his shoulder. "You can borrow one of   
mine. Second drawer down is clean. Mostly. And hey, it's like   
three a.m. Mind pulling out the couch again?" 

He heard a thump behind him as the legs of the sofabed came down, and   
was suddenly struck with the crippling embarrassment that had been   
his SO constant companion for most of his life. Oz hadn't said a   
word. Probably thought he was a total bastard for kissing him on   
what had to be the most emotionally traumatic night of his life so   
far. Jesus, Xander, you're such a moron.

"There are blankets in the closet. Sorry about the cement floor, but   
if you lie on the rug it shouldn't be too bad." Still not looking at   
Oz, feeling the dark coolness of the basement and the quiet seep into   
him again, and he was abruptly very tired. Turned from the sink,   
looking at the floor, and made his way to the bed. Pulled off his   
shirt and threw himself down on it and tried to pretend he was alone.

"Xander?"

"Yeah?" He lifted his head, but Oz had snapped off the lamp and he   
couldn't see a thing.

"My heart hurts." Just that, in a small quiet even voice, and Xander   
bit his lip HARD to keep the tears from coming.

"C'mere." Nothing. "Oz, c'mere. I'm not gonna molest you in your   
sleep. Just get over here." Small weight shifting the balance of   
the springs and a light body settling next to his own. Breathing in   
the dark. And he rolled to his side, bumping up against warm skin   
with his arm. Moved the arm, curled it around a bare waist, tangled   
the other in wiry hair and brought Oz's head down to his shoulder.   
Skin to skin, just like so long ago...smooth silk against his side,   
and a mouth resting on his shoulder, and an arm thrown across his   
chest, and suddenly it was like Oz was trying to crawl into his   
body. Tangling a leg with his. Holding him hard.

"Shh." Oz was still completely silent, but Xander could feel tension   
thrumming through the muscles against his own. This was so strange,   
the subject of so many dreams but so DIFFERENT. "Shh, Oz, I'm not   
going anywhere."

"Do you remember?" The mouth moving against his collarbone sent a   
little shiver up and down his spine. Mde his scalp prickle. He had   
no doubt what Oz was talking about.

"Yeah. All the time."

"Me too."

"I think maybe I fucked up there, Oz." It was so EASY, talking about   
it in the darkness.

"No. Wrong timing. You've got to have the timing or the song goes   
wrong."

"Er...right. But I'm still sorry I freaked. It was..." deep breath,   
out... "SO amazing."

"Yeah."

"Oz?" As he felt the small body burrowing closer. "I think the   
timing's still wrong."

"I know."

"But please feel free to stay that way all night. And maybe   
tomorrow, too, though I think if I stay this hard that long I might   
die. Oxygen deprivation of the brain." A huff of laugh against him,   
and he dropped a kiss on the top of Oz's head. Smiling. Feeling Oz   
hard too, and maybe that was enough. To know he was wanted. He   
flipped over, so that he was facing wide eyes he could barely see in   
the darkness. Pulled Oz into a real hug, body to body, hard. And   
then they were kissing, and he tasted incense and tears and the   
sweetness that was Oz, and felt hands tangling his hair and pulling   
him closer, and he never wanted it to stop. The timing. Anya. He   
pulled back, but held on, one more nibbling kiss, and let his head   
fall back to the pillow. They slipped into sleep, all tangled   
together, and they were smiling.

And the next morning, when Oz was stepping out the door and away from   
Sunnydale, Xander watched him go. Saw him turn in the light, look at   
him, so serious.

"Xander? I'll come back."

He nodded.

"I'll be here."


End file.
